"
"And if you did, fairy, they would not make you any prettier or
better than you are."
"I wonder if they do you any good, uncle?" she quickly replied; but
her companion made no answer; he only smiled.
Let me write here what John Greylston's tongue refused to say. Those
thoughts, indeed, had done him good; they were tender,
self-upbraiding, loving thoughts, mingled, all the while, with
touching memories, mournful glimpses of the past--the days of his
sore bereavement, when the coffin-lid was first shut down over Ellen
Day's sweet face, and he was smitten to the earth with anguish. Then
Margaret's sympathy and love, so beautiful in its strength, and
unselfishness, so unwearying and sublime in its sacrifices, became
to him a stay and comfort. And had she not, for his sake,
uncomplainingly given up the best years of her life, as it seemed?
Had her love ever faltered? Had it ever wavered in its sweet
endeavours to make him happy? These memories, these thoughts, closed
round John Greylston like a circle of rebuking angels. Not for the
first time were they with him when Annie found him beneath the old
pines. Ever since that morning of violent and unjust anger they had
been struggling in his heart, growing stronger, it seemed, every
hour in their reproachful tenderness. Those loving, silent
attentions to his wishes John Greylston had noted, and they rankled
like sharp thorns in his soul.
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